This Storm Ain't Got Nothing On Me Without You
by PartiPooper
Summary: A storm threatens to destroy everything Eric can't live without. (Kyman One-Shot; Rated T for profanities; My contribution to Day One of Kyman Week: Canon Moment; Reinvention of the scene from 'Smug Alert'.)


It was hard. With the lights blacked out throughout the house, and his helmet visor fogging up after every battled breath, it was hard for Eric to see anything at all. Even the windows offered no illumination, the insatiable storm swirling overhead having swallowed the sun whole. He had to feel his way up the stairs, sliding his hands along the wall with every fumbling step higher. He kept calling out his friend's name as he went, hoping that he would somehow be able to hear him over the mayhem outside: the disruption of normalcy, the destruction of modesty.

The city as they knew it was disappearing completely up its own ass around them.

Houses grumbled as they fell to their foundations, windows shrieked as they shattered from their panes, cars cried out in alarm as they were sent skidding down the street, and Eric yelled in between panicked pants, "Kyle!"

With every second that Kyle didn't shout back – that Eric didn't hear that familiar, infuriating, baby-goat bleat – his anxiety grew ten times the size of the storm outside, threatening to engulf him entirely along with the city. He was robbed of breath not just from the hazardous trek to the house, but from the sheer terror of not knowing what he would find at the end of it all.

What if he was already too late?

_No!_ Eric shook his head as though to dislodge that idea. He couldn't be. He wouldn't be. He always got what he wanted, one way or another. He'd make sure he did again this time.

As though to reward his raw resolve, saluting his deranged drive so like its own, awed by the absolute insanity of his actions, the storm outside kicked up the chaos conveniently.

Lightning crashed suddenly, the light flashing through the windows and showing the stairway briefly, but enough that Eric could see that he was almost to the top. He took that chance to race up the rest of the flight, darkness be damned, until he was level again on the upstairs hallway. As he tried to scan his surroundings, squinting through the shadows, the heavens opened once more – or, more likely, hell broke loose again. Another flash of lightning, and just feet away, Eric could see a door covered in star stickers. He had no doubt it was where he needed to go.

Eric thundered over and crashed through the door with a swift kick. It gave way with a crack like lightning, banging against the wall and juddering from the shock, almost shuddering in its hinges as though afraid of another attack. The door was fortunate that Eric's interest laid elsewhere.

"Kyle?!" Eric called hopefully. He got no response, but he did not need one. In the next split second, his eyes automatically gravitated to a pair of bodies floored by the side of a small bed. He did not need to look long to know who they were. Immediately, that hair, that hat, so horrible, so hallowed, were unmistakable. "Kyle!" Eric bolted to his side, afraid that he was passed out there, that maybe he was even… even…

No, not yet. He hadn't been too late. He was filled with relief and hope, expelling his anxieties and doubts in exhalation, as he saw that Kyle's eyes were open. Barely, though. They were strange, too. His pupils were blown, black holes, sucking the light and colour out of his irises. Yet, yawning as wide as they were, they seemed to see nothing. Their gaze wandered lazily around the room, restless and fickle, unable to focus on any one spot. It was as though he wasn't even seeing the room, wasn't seeing Eric standing right in front of him. Eric didn't know why, but he soon had his answer as Kyle burst out abruptly, his eyes suddenly snapping open as though everything had finally come to him at once.

"The acid!" Kyle didn't sound himself. The clipped, cool sharpness he usually spoke with was gone. His voice came slow and slurred. It reminded Eric of when they got high on cough syrup. "Dude. I'm totally tripping balls…"

"I'm totally tripping balls…" Ike copied lazily. He was sliding down where he sat, as though speaking prevented him from staying upright. "I'm totally tripping balls…" He fell completely, then, resting his head fully on his brother's shoulder, and shut his eyes. Eric knew he had passed out. Kyle was not far behind, his eyelids drooping once more. Eric wasn't about to let him get out of it so easily, though. He grabbed him by the shoulders, bunching up the fabric of his jacket in his fists, and pulled him up from the floor, bringing him right up against his visor so that he could shout in his good-for-nothing face.

"We have to get out of here, _now_!"

It was no good. Kyle didn't even _blink_ at Eric shouting mere inches from his face. He was ragdoll limp, slumped in his hold, his head falling back. His eyes were still open, but they may as well have not been. They were clouded and unseeing. He was showing no sign of responsiveness. Eric shook him wildly, becoming more desperate as he heard – no, _felt_ – a bolt of lightning strike the house directly above.

"Kyle!" he screamed. "Kyyyleeee!" His efforts proved futile. Kyle soon slipped his eyes shut, his head finally falling to rest on its side, pressing his cheek soundly to his shoulder as though there were no better pillow. He was out. "Shit," Eric swore. "There's nothing else for it." He pulled Kyle up fully from the floor, steadying him with a hand at the bend of his knees, another at the arch of his neck. Eric literally swept Kyle off his feet like the goddamn _princess_ he was being right then – getting into danger, being pathetic, and awaiting rescue – and was ready to carry him out. Luckily Eric was pretty strong for a fourth-grader, but Kyle still weighed heavy in his arms. "From now on," he huffed even though Kyle couldn't hear, "you're not allowed to make any more fat jokes."

Just as Eric was about to turn and leave, he heard a dull thump. He looked down and saw that Ike had hit the floor, laying horizontal now, his brother no longer beside him to hold him up. He stopped at the sight of him, a revelation hitting him.

It was all well and good taking Kyle home, but… what would he be like without his baby brother? Every time Ike even so much as ignored him, Kyle would go through a mini Goth Kid phase, moping through the next few days until his brother wanted to play with him again. It was so annoying, and depressing, and _boring_. Eric had to face it: without Ike, Kyle wasn't Kyle. He was a shell of himself, empty of energy, his fighting spirit leaving him with every beleaguered sigh. That wasn't what Eric wanted. That wasn't what Eric _needed_. If he was going to have Kyle, then he was going to have _all_ of him. Even if it meant doubling his load.

Time was short. Eric swore he could smell smoke coming from somewhere, could hear the crackle of ignited wood above them, so he acted fast. He got down and laid Kyle flat back at his feet, so that he was free to tear the cover from Ike's quilt. Then he hefted the toddler up from the floor as if he was a bag of sugar and bundled him up in the sheet like he was fitting him for a hammock. Keeping Ike pressed to his chest, he pulled the four ends of the sheet, two up around one side of his neck and two down under his arm at the other side, and tied them together where they met behind his back. With that, Ike was slung soundly.

Once sure that his brother was safe, slumbering in the makeshift sling across his chest, Eric went and took the cover from Kyle's quilt too. He made sure to shift Kyle, sitting him back up against the bed, so that he could try and slide the sheet behind his back. After some awkward jostling, he had it wrapped around him like a shawl. Eric turned around and squatted down in front of Kyle, as though inviting him for a piggyback ride or a game of leapfrog, so that he could heft the boy onto his back. All it took was pulling the four ends of the sheet that was around Kyle's back, one over either of Eric's shoulder and one under each of Eric's arms, so that all four ends met in the middle of his chest, just over Ike's swaddle. He knotted the ends together in front of him, and just like that, he was wearing Kyle like a backpack.

"Okay." Eric took a deep breath and made his way out of the room. "Let's do this."

Already Eric felt hotter, heavier, bearing both boys. His suit was a sauna, and he could feel the sweat on his skin, _smell_ it, see the steam smothering his visor. The worst wasn't even over yet. He still had the storm to hurry back through, and the gluttonous thing had been growing ever stronger since he'd been in the house. He could hear the clatter of lampposts falling over on the street, the creak of steel beams being bent, the crumble of straight roads becoming scattered rocks. His only hope was that luck was on his side. At least this way he could carry Kyle _and_ Ike while keeping his hands free, in case he suddenly needed to grab on to his lifeline if a gust of wind tried to blow them away.

Eric made it back downstairs safely, the added weight only nearly tripping him down the stairs twice. He'd hoped Mr and Mrs Broflovski would have noticed the world falling apart around them by then, so he was annoyed to see them still sitting in their armchairs in the living room. The open front door, its window shattered, had been bashing into the wall so much that it had caused a dent in the plaster. The wind thought itself welcome, and was rushing into the room from outside and tossing their hair. Yet, they could only sit there with silly, satisfied smiles on their faces. Eric would have thought that they were on acid, too, if their own pupils weren't perfectly ordinary.

Eager not to waste more time on them than was necessary, Eric tried calling out to them on his way to the front door, hopeful that they would hear sense at last. "Come on! I've got Kyle and Ike! Let's get out of here!"

"Why would we wanna go?" Mr Broflovski drawled. He sounded so like a child asking why the sun went down at the end of the day, daring to question, to criticise, the shifting of their galaxy, of the very universe, while without realising how truly insignificant a speck he was in it all, how little authority he _had_ to ask. "San Francisco is a nice place."

"It's falling apart, dumbass!" Eric's scream sheared his throat on the way out, the strain of shouting over the ravenous roars of the storm turning him hoarse. "You'll die if you stay here! You have to come with me!"

"This's jus' a tropical storm. This climate's so exotic, y'know." Mr Broflovski made no effort to shout over the storm, as though he couldn't even hear it. No, as though he didn't think it essential to make the effort, because what was the bellowing of the storm compared to _him_ – he, who was _so_ much more important, whose word was good and right and _needed_, who _had_ to be heard over it by decree of nature and morality themselves. The armchair was his throne, and he its rightful king – the front door hanging off its hinges, his pearly gates which would let no evil in. What, he thought, did a god have to fear?

"No, fucktard!" Eric Cartman, for the first time in his life, felt how his friends did when _they_ tried to talk to _him_ – the wrenching agony, the feverish exhaustion, of throwing your neck back until your bones creaked, of lashing your own throat with the crack of your voice, of uselessly pillaging your lungs of air, all trying to tell someone whose head was so high, too high to hear, that they were flying into the sun. "It's a smug storm! You smug assholes did this! And you'll die in it if you don't come now!"

"Language, Eric," Mrs Broflovski warned, but there was no real weight to it, not with her head lolling, an easy smile on her face, looking as though she was about to succumb to a long, deserved nap. Shockingly, that was just what she did – Eric's eyes widened, disbelieving, as he heard her begin to rumble with snores.

"Being smug is a _good_ thing." Mr Broflovski seemed to have already forgotten that he had said the exact same thing to Eric before he had gone upstairs, so polluted was his mind. The environment was less endangered, yes, but he himself was deranged. Unworried, unhurried, he closed his eyes slowly, settled deeper into his chair, and sighed like he had saved the world instead of brought it to its knees. "'Scuse _me_ for trying to help the environment."

"Ack! Ugh!" Eric threw his arm over his face and recoiled from the pure, cloying smugness rolling off of Mr Broflovski in waves. It smelled almost as bad as the farts he freely let loose, now, and shoved his face in between his legs to inhale, like a god drunk on narcissism and nectar, supping leisurely above the clouds while unaware, uncaring, of the torment which mere mortals were suffering on earth. Eric, enraged, gritted his teeth and growled. "God damn it! I swear if you don't come with me right now then I'm leaving you here to die!"

Mr Broflovski spoke no more. He looked as though he had truly gone to sleep along with his wife. Well, Eric was done with them. If this god of his own mind and making had forsaken him, then Eric would denounce him. He could not waste another second on pleas or prayers. He continued heading to the door, throwing his frustrations over his shoulder at them in passing.

"Fine! Fuck you! Die here! Kyle doesn't need you!"

Eric was almost out of the door, on his way out of hell, when he stopped dead in his tracks, blocked by what was no more, no less, than a thought. One horrible, horrifying thought, sapping his strength, sucking his breath, where he stood.

…_Did_ Kyle need his parents?

Thinking about it, even though Eric couldn't understand how or why, maybe… maybe Kyle _did_ need his parents. He respected them, for some reason. He admired them, even. He, actually, _loved_ them. It was ridiculous, and depressing, and frustrating, but Eric knew it all the same. And if Kyle needed them… if he _lost_ them… then Eric would lose Kyle. He would never be the same again. Kyle was already a bleeding heart when it came to people he had never met, people he didn't even know, people on the other side of the world; so Eric could only imagine how he would suffer when it came to his own people, the people he was closest to, the people he actually cared about. He would break. He would break and never be fixed.

Eric couldn't stand his things being broken.

Eric couldn't stand his things being taken.

And thinking more, Kyle _would_ be taken away, wouldn't he? With no mom or dad to take care of him and his brother, Kyle would, most likely, have to be taken in by another family member. The closest ones were on the east coast, though. New York, or New Jersey, or somewhere equally far away. Perhaps even somewhere further away.

Somewhere Eric wouldn't have a hope in hell of seeing him again.

At that thought, it was like the wind had come along and blown the air straight from his lungs, whipped the heart right out his chest, leaving him cold and dry and empty.

That… That couldn't happen. That wasn't _fair_. Kyle _had_ to stay with him. Kyle had to be with _him_. Always. _Forever_. Or else this was all for nothing.

There was no other way. If he had to have Kyle, then he had to everyone else who made him who he was as well.

"God damn it," Eric growled, and turned back into the house. He stormed over to Mr and Mrs Broflovski in turn, taking their hands and pulling them up from their armchairs. They started with surprise, blinking awake, bewildered, and looking around for what was making them rise to their feet, as though they could not feel, could not see, Eric tugging them with all his might. "Come on! You are not dying here! I'll fucking _drag_ you out of this house if I have to! Come on, you donkey-licking ass-munchers! Get the fuck up!"

Luckily, once they were well on their way to being awake, Mr and Mrs Broflovski could stand, at least. They were unstable, swaying unsteadily, stumbling. But they could put one foot in front of the other, and gave in to Eric pulling them out of the door, and that was enough. He couldn't let go, though. Once they were out on the street, he _tried_ letting go, chanced letting them follow him as he made an effort to push through the powerful waves of wind with Kyle and Ike on his own. It was easier. Then he looked back, a few feet on, and saw that they hadn't moved. Mrs Broflovski was standing in the street where Eric had left her, blankly watching a tree toppling over a few feet away as though it were a million miles off. Mr Broflovski was toppling over himself, trying to return to his house – the roof of which, as Eric had suspected and could now be sure of, was on fire. Eric cursed as he was forced to go back for them, clamping their hands like a vice again and swearing not to let go that time.

It took hours. That was how it felt, at least, walking through the wrecks and ruins. There was no city anymore, as far as Eric could see – simply towers and tornadoes of dust and debris. He could not find his way back by remembering the wine and cheese stores he had passed, for they were long gone – behind clouds, or become clouds themselves. He had to keep his head down and follow his lifeline, the cord convulsing, whipping wildly in the storm, as best he could. He was forced to duck often as objects flew over – the cover of a manhole, the top of a hydrant, the pole of a barbershop – and barely missed hitting him in the head. So hellish was the walk, Eric half began to suspect Satan was behind it all. Was he being tested by the big man below? Or, perhaps, was he being punished by the one above? It could have been either. Trial or torment, he simply encouraged it to end soon. With a Broflovski in either hand, one on his front, and one on his back, Eric was exhausted. He was being pushed to the absolute limits of his strength – not just physically, but mentally. His determination was disappearing with everything else.

Why the fuck was he doing this? He asked himself over and over. Why didn't he just drop them all and run? He knew he could make it on his own. Why was it worth going through this? It was more important that he lived. Why didn't he just leave them all to die?

Every time he asked, his answer was clear. He could feel it against his back, reminding him as he went:

Kyle, _alive_. The steady swell of his breathing. The faint thrum of his heart. Still fighting. Always fighting.

That fight was worth everything, even his own life. If he left Kyle there, then Eric might as well leave himself too – because he was as good as dead without him. What good was life, was waking, without something to fight for every day? What good was winning, was having, without bleeding for it? Did you really feel it, _any_ of it, if it hadn't made you feel _it_ first? Kyle was the only one who made him feel any of it. Loss. Gain. Defeat. Victory. Trial. Triumph. They were nothing without _him_. Empty words, without _his_ voice to echo them. Forgotten memories, without _his_ spirit to evoke them. Kyle's face was behind every feeling, the mugshot on his every emotion, and Eric knew it so well, now. Now he'd had it torn from him, now he'd had a taste of life, _real_ life – where you woke up, but you weren't awake. Sleepwalking. There was no gain, there was only giving. There was no defeat, there was only default. There was no try in triumph. How could he soak in his success, if there was no one to show him how low they'd sunk? How could he flee from his failure, if there was no one to show him how far he'd fallen? How could he _be_ – be the best or the beaten – if there was no one for _him_ to best, to beat? He couldn't. He could not be himself, bright or bruised, without _him_. That was the tragic truth: no competitor – no comparison – no completeness. If there was no Kyle, then there was no Cartman. That was the way it was. That was the way it had always been. That was the way it always _had_ to be.

Eric reminded himself of that with every push, every pull, every beat, every breath, every stop, every step, letting it swirl in his mind like a storm, letting it smother his every sense screaming at him to give up, call quits, let go, letting it swallow his sanity so that he was just a body moving, lungs filling, a mind swearing _it's worth it it's worth it it's worth it it's worth it it's worth it it's worth it it's worth it…_

He became so blind to the world in his senseless, saneless stupor that he didn't even realise that he was out until he heard a voice calling him.

"Eric! Oh, my stars!"

He finally brought his head up, his neck creaking after what felt an age, and saw a butter-blond boy windmill-waving from a few feet away, the collar of his jacket and the cuffs of his pants whipping madly in the wind, his hair dancing atop his head like a flaxen flame, a beacon to guide him homeward.

"Butters." Eric said his name aloud to ground himself, allowing himself to accept what he was seeing. If Butters was there, then so was Eric. If he was there, then he was out. If he was out, then so was Kyle – and all of his hopes with him.

"Eric!" Butters cheered his name for probably much the same reason, running up to meet him halfway. "Eric, you did it!" As soon as he'd made it to him, he threw himself on Eric, hugging him in celebration. Eric gacked at the grip around his neck. Butters was a shrimp of a boy, but he sure squeezed strong. "Thank goodness! I was so worried! I started thinkin' you wouldn't make it, and golly, I didn' know what I'd do! You sure showed me, huh? I'm so sorry for doubting you!"

Eric, hot and hunkered over, was not in the mood for a touching reunion. He snarled and shoved him away. "Get off of me, Butters, you black asshole! Help me get these douchebags on the bus already!"

"O-oh, right! Sorry, Eric!" Butters stepped forward to take Mr and Mrs Broflovski off of Eric's hands, but being snapped at didn't stop him from shutting up. "Gee, I'm sure glad you made it in time. It wasn' easy asking the nice bus driver to wait this long. I kept telling him _Eric'll be here any minute, Mr Bus Driver, don' you worry now_! He was awful angry though. Why, jus' five more minutes and he'd probably've-"

"Whatever, bore me with this bullshit later, let's just fucking go already." Eric blew past Butters toward the bus, his energy reignited by a spark of hope. It was easier now that the worst of the wind was behind him and he wasn't dragging two grown adults either.

"R-right!" Butters made to follow, leading the adults on. "Right this way, Sir. Ma'am." He spoke to them like he was playing a make-believe game where he was a butler, a bellboy, a store clerk, an air host, or anyone else much safer from their situation. Eric wished he could be so similarly carefree, but he was beaten and bone-tired. He severely needed a hot bubble bath and some lemon iced tea after all he'd been through. That day, though, was not done with him yet, and decided to put him through more.

"Well it's about time you got here!" the bus driver snapped at Eric as soon as he stepped on board. "Showing up bold as brass! The nerve! I suppose you think you're the most important person here, huh? You think you can keep all these nice folk on this bus waiting around for you to move your ass?" Tapping his finger against the wheel, he waited impatiently for an answer, an apology, although surely none would satisfy him. He was out of luck either way. Eric made it clear that he could not care less about meeting the man's expectations. He took his sweet time to reply, deciding to relieve himself of his headgear first, his helmet _hissing_ as he slowly removed it. When it was off, and tucked under his arm, he levelled the man with a glower of his own, as though it was, in fact, the _driver_ who had inconvenienced _him_.

"Yeah," Eric said, straight and shameless, "I fucking do, thanks. Now shut up and get us out of here."

The bus driver, too stunned to speak, could only watch with gaping mouth while Eric waltzed right past him without a backwards glance.

"Sorry, Sir," Butters told him as he boarded too, having finished spooling Eric's lifeline before getting on, carrying the cord underarm and keeping Mr and Mrs Broflovski in hand. "He's just a little bit of a grumpy pants today. He appreciates you waiting, honest. And I sure do, too. Thank you for your service!" He let go of Mr Broflovski momentarily to salute the dazed driver before carrying on over to the seat just behind the one Eric had selected for the brothers. There, he let the Broflovskis down beside each other on it. "There you go," he cooed as if tucking fussing babies into bed. "Ain't that better?"

"Why the fuck did I bring you?" Eric asked, already annoyed. He knew why, though. Stan and Kenny just were _not_ options in this operation. Neither was anyone else who would ask questions about the motivations for his mission, or come up with conspiracies about gross things like how he _felt_ about Kyle, or – worst of all – regularly remind him of his rescue. It was something better left forgotten, not foraged. Eric, himself, would make his best efforts to erase the entire affair afterwards. He knew that if he let it linger too long, then he would be just as inclined as Stan and Kenny would be to question himself, and he was scared of what monsters he would find lurking submerged in those undove depths, how his reflections would ripple beyond recognition or reason if he stirred the surface of those untested waters.

Butters, neither bright nor bold, would never ask, especially not if Eric disallowed it. He was safe. Eric was safe with him.

The bus began to move, all passengers aboard at last, and Eric undid Ike's sling so that he could place him in the seat in front of his parents'. He was still sleeping like a baby, which was quite apt for him. Eric turned around before undoing the sling keeping Kyle to his back next. The boy slid off straight onto the seat beside his brother. Eric turned again and pushed Kyle back against the seat, propping him up properly, laying him so that his head was resting against the window and pulling the sheet snug around his shoulders. Lastly, he righted the little green hat on his head, which had blown askew on the walk over, with a yank of its right flap. At that, at last, all was right with the world once more, and Eric – victorious, triumphant, _deserving_ – allowed his hand to linger lightly on Kyle slightly longer as he let him go, fingers slipping slowly through his curls and watching as they bounced back into place, thumb brushing against his cheek and observing its cold sting. Kyle did not even stir. Eric was free, thus, to gorge himself more on the sight of him – to trace every freckle on his nose, to track every flutter behind his eyelids, to trail every breath from his mouth – to taste _existence_. Because Kyle _did _exist. Eric had made sure of that. Kyle existed, and Eric was going to _enjoy_ it. From that day forwards, in fact, he was going to _ensure_ it. He had to. Because Kyle was everything. Kyle was-… He was…

He was so vulnerable, he realised. So irreplaceable, he knew now. So precious, he would never forget.

Eric felt so thin and sick, so fat and full. He knelt down in front of Kyle, and leaned in until their noses nearly touched, so that he could speak quietly, so that no one else could hear his vow.

"You are never going anywhere," Eric told him, bitter and biting. Kyle was still out cold, but Eric told him all the same. He needed to tell him. He was shaking so bad suddenly, high on cheating death, low on just barely feeling the brush of its bony fingers, and all that he could think were those words. He needed the words _out_, out where they could not wrack him or weigh him anymore. They were poison, powerful and pulsing, and he could not, _would_ not, suffer their sting alone anymore. Kyle – the cause, the blame – had to have them too. "Do you hear me, Jew? _Nowhere_. Not without me. Because you're _mine_. If you ever try to go away again, I'll come after you. Don't think I fucking won't. To any country. Across any ocean. Hell and back. You will never, _ever_ escape me. I'll be there. I swear." Eric felt the urge to do something dumb like press his forehead against Kyle's. He resisted it, swallowing heavy. "I fucking swear it."

"What are you mumbling over there, Eric?" Butters asked, bringing Eric back to the bus. He was sitting on a seat across the aisle, swinging his feet back and forth without a care.

"Nothing." Gruntled that he had got his point across to Kyle, though little did the Jew know so, Eric stood back up and swerved the sleeping brothers' seat, heading down the walkway of the bus. "Come on, we're sitting at the back."

"Aw," Butters whined, "but I wanna be up front!"

"Butters!" Eric yelled from halfway down the bus.

"Wuh, okay! Okay, I'm comin'!" Butters hurried behind as beckoned, but he kept casting worried glances back over his shoulder at the Broflovskis as they went further away from them. When Eric finally sat down right at the very back of the bus, far behind the Broflovski's row of seats at the front, Butters decided he could not keep his concerns to himself. "Gee," he said as he settled in next to him, "not for nothin', Eric, but it'll sure be hard to talk to Kyle this way when he wakes up, won't it?"

"We're not going to talk to Kyle," Eric said, already watching out the window, turning his attention to the speck of the storm behind them, the hope of home ahead. The conversation, as far as he was concerned, was complete. Butters begged to differ.

"What?! But how will he know how he got on here? We have t-"

"He won't," Eric cut him off. "This is a secret, Butters. Kyle can't know. You can never tell him. Ever."

"Not tell him?!" Butters cried. "But why? I think he'd _want_-"

"You think I care what he wants?" Eric scoffed before Butters could make that lame excuse. He'd already told Butters, from the beginning, that he wasn't doing it for Kyle. He didn't know how many other ways he could spell it out. This wasn't about anybody but himself – _his_ wants, _his_ needs. "Christ! Just shut up and do this for me, Butters. You can keep a secret, can't you? Don't tell Kyle. Actually, don't tell _anyone_, or I'll tell everyone at school _your_ worst secret."

"Y-you don' kn-know my worst secret," Butters challenged, but his stutter spoke stronger. _Easy_. Eric met the challenge with cool confidence.

"Yes I do."

"You're lyin'!" Butters tried, willing his words to be true.

"No I'm not. And even if I was, you know I could find out your secret."

That was one thing Butters could count on to be true. Rude, ruthless, Eric Cartman could extract anything concealed. He'd do it dirty, too. He was the type to break a piggy bank with a hammer if the coins weren't falling out of the slot fast enough.

"So you're not going to tell him, are you?" Eric's tone dared Butters to say otherwise.

Butters was not the daring kind. He shuffled awkwardly in his seat like he was trying to hold in some gas, unsure, bumping his knuckles together like he always did when he was nervous. One part of him didn't want to let it go, knew he shouldn't give Eric his way, while the other part just didn't want to upset him.

It was _that_ part which won in the end. It was exactly why Eric had brought Butters. It was exactly why Eric had wanted Kyle.

"Okay," Butters said, settling his hands – and the matter – back in his lap. "I won't tell 'im." He looked down at his legs, no longer swinging, and pinched his lips together like it would stop him talking. It was silly of him to try – nothing ever would stop that habit of his. "But," he added, helpless to hold it in, "I think _you_ should. Why, I'm sure Kyle'd be awful grateful."

Eric said nothing else, but he knew Butters was right about Kyle.

_And that_, he thought to himself, _is why Kyle can't know_.

Kyle knowing would be just as bad as him dying back there. It would change everything between them. And nothing could change. _Nothing_…

…

Eric couldn't see that it already had.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**I have no more essays to write for university, so I could finally write another story. What really motivated me and inspired me, though, was my favourite international, annual holiday: Kyman Week! It's taking place on Tumblr as we speak, and the prompt for the first day was _Canon Moment_. I'm a little late with my submission, but better late than never. I'm just glad I've managed to participate in some, small way.**

**I chose to write about S10E02 _Smug Alert_ because, well... it's all very vague, isn't it? Eric gets Kyle and his family out, but we never see how. It's something that keeps me up at night, so I wanted to get my own ideas out. I hope this still counts as a _canon_ moment, even though I've made most of it up myself. I think it definitely counts as a moment, at least. I'd say it's one of the most famous, dearly beloved, classic Kyman moments of all. Well, it's one of my favourite moments, anyway.**

**I'm sorry if my writing seems a little different and strange here. It does to me, at least. I think it's because I read a story recently which reads like this, and the style has influenced me. It was done much better in the story I read, though, I must admit. This is a poor imitation. Still, I guess it's good to try something new, isn't it? It may help to get me out of my block.**

**Thank you! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!**


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